I've Never Been a Fan of Fishing
by AnnabeeLee
Summary: What do you do when you've lost control of your life, your roommate is an immortal demigod, and you may or not be in love with said roommate? That's actually a rhetorical question, and you should probably go take a nap. Part 1 of the God(s?) series


Title: I've Never Been a Fan of Fishing

Rating: T (for language mostly)

Summary: What do you do when you've lost control of your life, your roommate is an immortal demigod and you may or not be in love with said roommate? That's actually a rhetorical question, and you should probably go take a nap. Part 1 of a larger series.

My lame attempt at humor, angst, and UST. John is a lot younger in this, about 25, and never went into the military. Sherlock is a lot older, seeing how he's immortal.

* * *

"Shit, Sherlock, I need a little help here!"

"I'm sorry, John. You know I cannot help you." Something goes whizzing past John's head, and he swears loudly, ducking and trying not to panic. Or actually panic any more than he is right now. This assignment is not going as planned at all. Sherlock merely watches with a face of bored interest, like he was watching a documentary on the migration patterns of fish and not John five seconds from being blown to hell.

The bastard.

"You can't do _anything_?" John pleads, fumbling with his pistol as something slimy and distinctly tentacle taps his foot from behind the brick wall where he was hiding. He kicks at, mindlessly, not wanting to waste a bullet on such a small part. Sherlock rolls his eyes, leaning back just in time for another projectile to narrowly miss his nose. He could at least act like this wasn't an evening in the shop. They were being hunted, for God's sake, and he's just standing there.

"No, actually. That is the rules Mycroft set down-"

"Oh, to hell with Mycroft! When do you ever listen to your brother?"

"I do when he unabashedly controls my ability to breath." Sherlock sneers and John is just a hair from shooting him in his smug, pompous face, but another grey appendage wraps itself around his ankle and John is dragged screaming out into the open. The pistol falls from his hand, clattering out of reach as he desperately grabs for the solid wall, though his sweating hands slip because he was having such a _bloody good day before this._

"Sherlock!" He's suspended ten feet in the air upside down, all manner of yellow teeth and large hungry eyes all ready to consume him. A tongue, thick and black makes an appearance to taste his dirty sweating face, the pungent scent of decaying household pets and rotted trash emanating from the saliva left over on his skin. For a moment, he is sure this is it. This is how John Watson dies. He's had a good run, going down as a nasty whatever-the-fuck's lunch at the young age of twenty-five.

Oh, who is he kidding? He's hardly got a cent to his name and no one would give a shit if he was dead. Just makes the whole thing that much better.

There's three shots, ringing in his ear, and John finds himself dumped unceremoniously onto the concrete ground, face mashed lovingly into the rough surface and with fifty pounds of nasty, squishy, _bleeding_, tentacle covering him. Fantastic.

"Now, I may help you." John can't actually tell if Sherlock is smiling, or if it's just the tiny amount of sun peering through the clouds over head fucking with his sight, but either way it almost makes the whole ordeal worth it with the way it makes his heart clench. John scrambles out from under what's left of the rapidly rotting monstrosity Sherlock's brother had instructed them to eradicate, Sherlock standing by to exam the pistol and generally act as though this was all just one more inconvenience for him.

Git.

"Don't worry about me. I'm perfectly alright." John snips, trying to wipe away the spit still on his face and almost gluing his hand to his cheek for his effort.

"We should report to Mycroft."

"Not even going to ask if I'm fine, huh? Just 'better tell my ass of brother job's all done'?" Sherlock regards him with an expression that is a perfect mixture of irritation and what John imagines how God would look if a beetle bit him. John stares right back, letting his own stubborn anger and the pain in his scraped up face to show plainly and proudly.

Sherlock walks away, his answer clear, and John resigns himself to another night of licking his own wounds clean and burying himself under enough alcohol to make him forget any of this even happened. Basically, it was going to be like every other night had been for the past four months.

What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

To be honest, John didn't sign up for any of this. He had been a medical student, well on his way to being done with classes and exams and essays that made no fucking sense. He had been so close, he could almost taste the overnights at the hospital, and being on call, and the sterilized smell of modern medicine that would never leave his clothes no matter how much he washed them.

And then Mycroft Holmes popped into his life, and all of that went to utter shite in the matter of days. Now, instead of dealing with influenza, e. coli, and hypochondriacs, he was under the constant watch of _demigods_, and he was hunting monsters, and constantly almost dying because his partner wasn't actually a partner, but more of a refined nanny, and _when had this become his life?_

He could say that it wasn't all terrible, but that would be lying, and John didn't need any more delusions on his part. It's not like he wanted to do any of this, be the underling of a bunch of narcissistic deities, but John had no say in the matter. If he ran away, they would grab and drag him kicking and screaming all the way back. That's the problem with having gods as your supervisors; they are literally _everywhere_. Even killing himself was out of the question because they'd probably take his soul and slam right back into his body just for trying.

You might ask what qualified him for such a job, and John couldn't fucking tell you, because no one felt like it might be necessary to inform him of why he was needed to do such a ridiculous and out of his league thing. He didn't even get a say in his own money situation, residence, or hours. Mycroft or one of his lackeys would show up, often at inconvenient times, and John and Sherlock would be off to do something awful and John would reminisce about the good days when all of his stress came from exams and losing a patient. Now he's risking his neck and he doesn't even know why.

On top of everything else from constant threats to his well-being and subtextual insults that he generally didn't pick up on until after the fact, Mycroft had stuck John with his brother, the cold, arrogant, Sherlock Holmes. The man who enjoyed keeping thumbs in the microwave and played the violin at two in morning and quite often found it funny when John got pounded on by hell-spawn from fuck knows where. Sherlock was a charmer if nothing else with his bouts of silent periods and tendency to make back-handed comments based on what he _deduced_ from you.

He liked to sulk, never did any of the shopping, couldn't be bothered to clean, and despite his extensive knowledge in chemistry, couldn't cook either. He also was not allowed to help John in any way, shape, or form during their 'assignments' until John was seconds from dying, which was a terrible rule that neither of them liked.

Sherlock wasn't all bad, actually. At first, John had hated him, merely for the fact that he was literally just there to make sure John did his job, like a live in babysitter. That alone was enough to make Sherlock the target of his frustrations, but, after two months of being side by side nearly every day, John had been able to see some good in the man. He was interesting, often helping the police with cases they couldn't quite figure out, and when his deductions weren't directly insulting anyone, they were amazing.

John had also discovered he and Sherlock had a lot in common. Mycroft's stringent control over them being the main factor. Even demigods had a form of hierarchy and, from what John could gather, Sherlock had fallen quite far down the social god ladder to be John's flatmate. He didn't know how that had happened, but it wasn't his place to ask. If Sherlock felt like divulging, then he would, and any questions before that moment would be shot down and met with an angry and cutting insult that John often had no comeback for.

How did you insult a demigod anyhow? It wasn't like Mycroft provided him with any convenient how-to books. Hell, Mycroft hadn't provided him with any books or basic training or even a pamphlet on anything, but that was besides the point.

* * *

By the time they made it back to 221B Baker Street, John felt like a piece of modern art, the blood on his clothes stiffening to cement and now dyed a vibrant shade of puce. The cabbie was thankfully either blind or mute, since he didn't ask what the hell had happened to John. Sherlock sat next to him in a stubborn silence, nose upturned to the stench wafting off of John's clothes and staring out the window. It had struck John, just as they pulled up to the curb, how normal this all was seeming now, which honestly scared a hell of a lot more than being lunch for a massive blob thing.

Mrs. Hudson, their landlady who either didn't know what their occupation was or didn't care, was wonderfully absent, seeing how one look at John would raise more questions than he honestly knew how to answer. He made a beeline for the shower, not even saying a word to his companion as he all but ran to it, imagining hot water and fresh clothes. While soaking himself in water that would be better utilized to boil vegetables than to bathe himself, he didn't hear the front door quietly click shut nor the careful footsteps down the stairs and out of the building.

Sherlock had a habit of disappearing for days at a time, leaving not a note or mention of where he went or for how long he'd be gone. So by the time John had exited the shower, where he had decidedly not thought about Sherlock in any way, shape or form while vigorously scrubbing blob monster blood from his hair, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. The flat was quiet and lonely and John collapsed onto the sofa to take a nap, quietly disgruntled by his companion's unexpected departure.

Most of the time, if Sherlock left, it was because he had received a text or call from the detective inspector Lestrade about a case that needed his consultation, because Sherlock apparently did that on the side too, and John would generally be invited to tag along. Since John's life was either imminent death or stuck in the flat, he would go with. Plus the cases provided some entertainment that didn't involved John being hurt. It was every other week or so, like now, that Sherlock would just up and vanish. At first, John didn't care. He figured it was some sort of demigod thing he had to do and John, being human as fuck, wasn't part of that guest list.

After a the third time of Sherlock being basically non-existent for four days in a row, it started to grate on John's nerve, for some very good reasons. The first being that having to deal with Sherlock's experiments without him there was annoying at best. Mold cultures in a the cupboard and rat tails soaked in sulfer in the fridge did not make for a pleasant breakfast experience. Without Sherlock there, John had no one to yell at for these things. The second being that he worried, irrationally. If Sherlock was going to do some sort of task for Mycroft or their 'Mummy' (that's what they called their parent and John was certain Mummy was some form of god), John hoped someone was backing him up. Not that Sherlock usually needed it, but still.

The third, most idiotic and confusing reason he disliked Sherlock falling off the face of the Earth, was that John had started to suspect that it wasn't for Mycroft at all. That Sherlock was leaving for more personal, intimate reasons. It was stupid, he knew that. Sherlock was his own person, was probably older than he let on, and this situation with John was only a few months old. Why wouldn't he have friends and lovers outside of the flat? He and John weren't really friends in the first place, just coexisting. That was fine, and to be expected, but it _bothered _John in a quiet venomous way.

Maybe it was because John was alone, had always been alone. Not by his own choice or lifestyle, but because people forgot him. He was never on their A-list and before now that had been an almost none issue. If friends, if you could call them such, needed him, they would find him. Unfortunately, Mycroft had him under what could most likely labelled as house arrest. He wasn't allowed far from the flat without Sherlock accompanying him, as if they were afraid he would be able to make a break for it and actually get out of their reach. Sherlock was literally his only contact that he had any more, and the more he thought about it, the more this sounded like Stockholm Syndrome.

So maybe John was a little jealous and a little greedy, not willing to share the scant amount of companionship he had. Any other deeper meaning to his bordering on obsessive need for Sherlock to be around was to be ignored or buried under years of practiced repression garnered from his old fashioned parents and their stiff resolve against his sister's 'choices'. Sherlock was a friend, or acquaintance, and that was it. No more, no less.

Of course, what he might want from Sherlock hit him at the strangest of moments like before when he was being smothered by an oozing decaying tentacle and Sherlock seemed to be lit by a beam from heaven. That may have been the concussion. He liked to blame these instances on injury and the heat of the moment when a rush of adrenaline makes anyone look good, despite gender or mortality. Evidence was starting to stack against John though, and he was having a harder time blaming the odd times when Sherlock made him feel like a love-sick teenager on whiplash or severe blood loss.

Well, given the current rate they were going, John would be dead within a year anyways. Few more months of sneaking glances, well timed passes by the washroom, and awkward morning wood which no matter how hard he tried to will down would persist until dealt with, would not kill him any faster. He'd be fine.

John always came to this conclusion whenever Sherlock went out. The time alone spent with his thoughts followed the general pattern of:

1) I'm alone.

2) I'm lonely.

3) Why am I lonely?

4) Why don't I have any friends?

5) Oh yeah.

6) Where's Sherlock?

7) Probably with someone else.

8) That's irritating.

9) Why is it irritating?

10) I kind of like Sherlock.

11) No, I don't.

12) Maybe I do.

13) Fuck, doesn't matter. Probably going to die soon.

This resolve to not care always went flying right out the window the moment Sherlock walked back through the door, and would boomerang right back and smack him so hard in the face, John was surprised he didn't actually have a bruise. Case and point, two days later after coming back from the shop with few necessary edible items that weren't already chemically soaked or growing their own independent nations, John heard the wavering notes of the violin wafting through the front door and he nearly dropped the bags in his leaping into his throat, he had hurried upstairs, all but tripping over himself in his haste.

Sherlock was there, eyes closed and lost in his own tempo as he swayed with his instrument, an immaculate and breath-taking image. It was times like these, back lit by the grey light of another cloudy day, that Sherlock actually seemed so out of reach. It reminded John, so painfully much, that this man was not like him, wasn't even near his level. Sherlock was half a god, of literal divine birth, and John was just the mere mortal he had to deal with for some reason. John was an ant compared to him.

How much time had passed between his opening the door and John figuring out that he had been openly and unabashedly staring at his flatmate was an open question for to anyone to answer and one he would flush with humiliation later when he tried to figure it out.

Once he did notice the stupid look on his face, and the ache in his arms from clutching the groceries, John had shuffled to the kitchen, berating himself and praying to whatever god was in charge of such a thing that Sherlock hadn't noticed. He'll be frustrated for the rest of the week, to be sure, but it would be _fine_ and he won't _think about it_ because it didn't actually matter. This was nothing compared to Harry dying in a hospital and his parents being too stubborn to come and support. This was nothing compared to the first time he shot someone dead due to his new career path. This was just an infatuation brought on by too much stress and too much time spent with one person. That one person who won't notice John beyond being a minor annoyance, and who probably had some other demigod or something worthy of his time out there in the world beyond Baker St. He'd get over it and move on.

It was fine.

* * *

"You're hardly in a position to be bargaining with me." Mycroft's over, again, probably a folder in his hand filled to the brim with the next assignment that will undoubtedly lead to some form of trauma to John's well-being. John is hiding in the hall, having caught snippets of conversation as he made his way to the living room.

"A week, Mycroft. That's all I ask. I need time to think without your constant distractions." Sherlock sounds desperate, something John hadn't heard in his voice before. It's what keeps him from interrupting their talk. Sherlock never talks about himself, or his past, or his interests. Most of what John knew of the demigod was either what he had seen or what he assumed. In order to sate his curiosity, he'd have to be sneaky when the two brothers were talking. John wasn't very good at sneaky, but there you are.

"Your attempts at reconciling your newest 'interest' is no priority of mine. Nor are they Mummy's. Now, you and John have a job to do, and I suggest you get on it and stop fretting over the rediscovery of your genitalia."

"Mycroft-"

"The answer is no."

"As you wish." Sherlock was angry, clearly. There was the familiar popping of Mycroft leaving the general vicinity and John wondered if it was safe to come out of his hiding place. "Trying to blend into the wall doesn't actually work on me, John. " Sherlock said aloud, John clearly fooling no one.

Right.

He stepped into the room, taking in Sherlock perusing a crisp new folder which would promptly direct to whatever monstrosity they had to take care of today. Hopefully something fluffy with a taste for carrots. A giant glowing bunny, perhaps. John made the suggestion, and Sherlock scoffed.

"Given the amount of new information you have been receiving in the past four months, it's not surprising you would question the existence of a great many strange and mythological things. 'Giant glowing rabbits' do not exist, however."

"It would've been a lot easier to just say no."

"But much less fun for me." He held out the folder, disgruntled by what was inside apparently. "This is going to be a rather irritating case, let me assure you. If my brother wasn't such a cow, he would do it himself." John perused the papers apprehensively. He could never be quite sure what sorts of photos would be lovingly included in these packets.

"Rouge acolyte?" John said aloud, reading what was on the page like Sherlock hadn't just done so. "What does that mean, exactly?" Something with teeth, probably.

"Someone who has lost their minds from their duties granted by the gods, and who has defected before said powers could be taken away. Acolytes are mortals. It's hardly shocking."

"Does that happen often?"

"Unsurprisingly." John nods, one eye on the paper which details a lot of gory, nasty details, (he didn't actually know you could do that to someone's spine, holy shit), and the other was glued to Sherlock. Metaphorically speaking of course, otherwise he'd be practicing his impression of a fish. Sherlock was showing one of his few displays of emotion beyond smug and apathetic, rubbing his face vigorously before standing up with such ferocity, John was certain he had heard several of his bones pop into place.

"We will need to leave soon. Our target has a habit of moving about and the designated location will only be valid for a few more days." He was already pulling on his coat and heading out the door. John scrambled to catch up, mentally preparing himself for the fantastic mood Sherlock was in.

* * *

Through the few months he's been working as a handyman for the divine, John has learned to discriminate between certain odd noises he had encountered. Growling usually meant he should turn back the way he came. As did chirping, scratching, bubbling, snorting, singing, and loud, obnoxious footsteps. In fact, most sounds generally meant that he was just a few steps from being maimed, dismembered, or at least partially incinerated. Of course, these all compile together with other signs of potential dangers such as blood, ooze, body parts, and even, once, a whole giraffe's head.

There weren't any giraffes around here and John was still trying to find where the fuck that even came from.

One thing he hadn't heard before, as they were stalking through the grey dead building, holding their breaths around every corner, was whispers. Not just general murmuring in the other room or above him, but right in his ear, like the invisible man was bear hugging him from behind and telling him his life story right into his brain. Worst part was that there was no one around, which only made John feel that much better.

"I don't hear anything." Sherlock said when John asked, quizzical look set in his face before he immediately suggested they split up to cover more ground.

"In what context is that a good idea?"

"You'll have your gun. Besides, he's more likely to come out if we are alone. You shout, I'll come running, and I expect the same from you." John had half a mind to walk out right then, but Sherlock was already disappearing around the corner, leaving him alone with only disembodied muttering to keep him company.

Unsurprisingly, this is how John found himself face-to-face with the burliest looking man he'd ever seen and subsequently getting his ass kicked to next Thursday all within the span of ten minutes. He'd hardly had time to take a single step before Mr. Acolyte was looming in front of him, knocking the gun out of his hand and all but throwing him into the large empty room. Before he could even regain his bearings, the man had been on him, knee planted firmly in John's stomach. John didn't know when he finally got up the strength to yell out, whether it was between the fist to his throat, or the foot kicking out his knees, but he must've made some sort of loud and possibly embarrassing noise.

Thankfully, Sherlock held up his end of the bargain, and came to render swift justice to where John had failed. And what a sight that was. John had never seen him go all out on anything like this before, didn't even know Sherlock could fight past the basics. Here, he was doing nothing but complete domination, taking down the target with a few precise blows. John was certain he heard someone's bones crack and the man went down with a loud satisfying thump, Sherlock standing over him breathing heavily, bleeding, looking nothing like the god John had witnessed the night before on the violin. Here, dirty and banged up, he was human, wiping blood from his lip, and kicking the man groaning on the floor again for his effort.

It was... He was...

Shit.

* * *

Sometimes, figuring out how much someone has come to mean to you takes a very small event. Watching them walk out the door to go to work. Getting into a fight with them over whose turn it is to clean the kitchen. Seeing them fall asleep on your shoulder because they're too tired to realize where they are. Listening to them passionately talk about fishing or some other bullshit that just sort of screams in your ear that you couldn't imagine your life continuing on without them right by your side, listing off all the reasons why one fishing pole is superior to the next. You may not actually give a shit about live bait or who scrubs the plates, but if they were to suddenly leave you, you know you would never be the same because _they aren't there to do so_.

Other times, you're hunched over a rotting hardwood floor, coughing out your lungs because a stranger punched you in the throat and you happen to look up in time to see that certain someone kicking the bastard's ass for you. It is in that moment of panicked breathing, raw nerves, grateful relief, and amazement at how strong Sherlock actually is that John had the fantastic revelation that _shit, he's probably fucking falling for this man_.

Not the best time to figure that out.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock is stooped over him, John having crawled over to the nearby wall to continue wheezing and watch the proceedings with an unobstructed view. There was blood on Sherlock's knuckles and running down his lip from where it had split and a rapidly healing bruise on his cheek and John isn't particularly sure if the shortness of breath is from the damage to his windpipe anymore.

"Fine." He croaks out and Sherlock's tipping his head back to look at his neck, fingers pressing into sore skin and John is five seconds away from doing something _excessively stupid_ if Sherlock doesn't stop it. "'M fine." He tries again, but ends up sounding like a petulant child who scraped his knee and whose best friend's oddly hot sister is now cooing over him. In a really roundabout way, that's almost exactly what's happening. More or less.

"That will take a few days to heal but you should be fine." Sherlock finally says, his fingers no longer tracing the outline of the bruise on his windpipe and John can breathe again.

"I was pre-med, you know. I know how the fucking body works." He actually sounds more like a fifty year-old five-pack-a-day smoker than anything else once he really thinks about it. "Thanks for that, by the way." He's smiling despite himself, coughing just a little and Sherlock returns the expression, shaking his head.

"Someone had to come to your aide. Last time I checked, that was one of two things on my contract."

"What's the other? Being an utter dick?" Sherlock chuckles, a deep reverberating sound that goes right through John and settles warm between his ears. He wants to hear that noise forever, to live in it, especially after such a painful and hellish experience. Listen forever to a sound of contentment and humor which he caused despite his aching body.

"Possibly." It is here that John realizes that they actually are kind of close, Sherlock still crouched before him and hand placed gently on the junction of his shoulder and neck. Their knees were brushing and if John leaned forward just a smidgen more, he could kiss him. Not that he was thinking about that. It was weird. Was it weird? Was he just making it weird? He doesn't even know anymore because the definition of weird has re-written itself in his head at least seventeen times in the past four months. This could be just pretty damn normal now.

Sherlock helps him stand up, catches him when he stumbles because of his own shaking legs. The still sane acolytes where already cleaning up their mess, and they pay them no attention as they pass. John leans heavily on Sherlock, and he could later blame it on the fact that a) his legs are currently doing a fantastic impression of jelly and b) his head is still spinning and dizzy from the loss of oxygen. The unsaid, third option where he genuinely is just enjoying the physical contact is left to be fretted over another day.

If Sherlock notices how much pleasure John is silently getting out of using him as a crutch, he thankfully doesn't say a word and when John falls asleep on the ride home, head resting on Sherlock's shoulder, he allows it, a small smile on his face and his bloody hand resting gently over John's quaking fingers.

* * *

**A.N.: **Let me know your thoughts~


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